


How to Be Alright

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Touchy-Feely, aziraphale gets a clue, i knew there had to be a specific apocalypse tag for this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: “I thought,” Crowley says, voice emotionless, “that the last conversation we were going to have was going to be an argument about the bloody stars.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 248





	How to Be Alright

**Author's Note:**

> hello again good omens how i've missed you so

It occurs to Aziraphale, some days into the rest of their lives, that he owes Crowley an apology.

“My dear,” he says, quite abruptly, considering Crowley is in the middle of waxing on about the trees along the walkway and aren’t they just a touch too green, Angel, what do you suppose Adam did to them?

Crowley pauses mid-sentence and waits, mouth still partially open, eyebrow raised expectantly.

And. Well. Now that he’s stopped him, Aziraphale finds that he doesn’t quite know how to begin.

What he _does_ know is that they have time now, all sorts of lovely, wonderful time, and that the sky is quite blue and that he cannot seem to forget the expression on Crowley’s face when he’d leaned over the Bentley, apologizing and begging – begging! - Aziraphale to run away with him into the stars.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says again, and without really thinking too much about it, reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand in his own.

Crowley makes an interesting sort of gurgle, the noise catching in his throat, and his fingers give a bit of a spasm where Aziraphale is holding them. For a moment, neither of them move, and St. James Park moves steadily around them. In the pond, a duck waits hopefully for a morsel that sadly is never destined to come.

“I… must apologize,” Aziraphale begins tentatively. How does one even go about this? He is slowly realizing that he has quite a bit to apologize for, in fact, thinking over the events of the last several days. For along with Crowley’s apology, there is the first request to consider, as well as their argument at the bandstand. Goodness gracious, Aziraphale had actually insinuated that he’d be perfectly fine severing the Arrangement, after all.

The thought of never seeing Crowley again does unpleasant things to his chest and Aziraphale finds himself thinking inexplicably of the dreary little pub where he’d found Crowley after he’d been discorporated, drinking steadily and looking for all the world like the apocalypse had already come and gone.

Crowley had whispered, anguished, that they’d killed his best friend and it’s at that moment, standing there with the warmth of the sun paling in comparison to the warmth in the tips of his fingers where they meet Crowley’s, that Aziraphale realizes all that once that the dear boy had meant _him_.

“My _dear_ ,” Aziraphale says for a third time and this time Crowley scoffs.

“Yes, got that bit already, Angel, now what is it?”

But he doesn’t pull his hand away, standing frozen right there on the foot path, neither moving closer nor fleeing. Looking for all the world like the picture of relaxation.

But Aziraphale _knows_ him. Has known him, in fact, for six thousand years now. He knows him better than he thinks he even knows himself these days, and Aziraphale can see the tension humming beneath the surface. Crowley is drumming the fingers of his free hand against his thigh and he is frowning rather viciously, squinting from behind his sunglasses as though it would make the world come in a bit clearer.

Aziraphale considers his words. It is something so utterly precious, his relationship with Crowley, and he must tread with caution.

“I don’t think I would have liked Alpha Centauri,” he begins carefully.

But it seems to be precisely the wrong thing to say, because Crowley stiffens, teeth gritting and his shoulders going impossibly tight.

“Yes, yes, you made that perfectly clear,” he snaps, and goes to pull his hand away.

Aziraphale grips his hand tighter, alarmed, and Crowley flinches as though Aziraphale has sent an electric current shooting straight through him.

“There wouldn’t have been any books,” he says quickly. “Or lunches or delightful little pastries or walks through the park. Or parks, at that.” Crowley is silent, and Aziraphale barrels on. “But I think with you there we might have still found something nice about it. Is what I’m trying to say.”

Crowley frowns slightly, looking at him from behind those infernal sunglasses as though he is not entirely sure what he’s looking at and that wasn’t the expression Aziraphale had been hoping for at _all_. Surely Crowley knows how important he is to him? Surely Crowley knows that it wasn’t _him_ Aziraphale had been rejecting, but rather their giving up on the earth?

Aziraphale looks around them and decides that lovely though the park is, that perhaps it is not a good place for the conversation that he wants to have.

“Care for a drink?” he asks, aiming for casual and feeling rather like he misses the mark. “Back at the shop, I mean. It’s really quite lovely, the way Adam has fixed it all up.”

Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat that Aziraphale takes to mean yes, and without releasing Crowley’s hand he leads them back up the path out of St. James Park.

The bookshop is indeed precisely as Aziraphale had left it before the fire. Well, with the exception of several new collections of first edition children’s novels with exciting titles – all about pirates and aliens and strange exciting creatures coming to life and generally tearing things up beautifully.

Aziraphale had tried to read one, the first night, and found it all to be a bit much.

“Tea, dear, or should we move straight to the wine?” he calls, busying himself in the kitchen. “I must admit I’m not entirely certain how much knowledge an eleven year old Antichrist has, but perhaps I still have a decent bottle lying around.”

It truly is a marvel. If Crowley hadn’t told him the bookshop had burned, Aziraphale may not have ever noticed.

When he gets no reply, Aziraphale leaves the kettle on and goes hunting for Crowley. He finds him standing more or less where he’d left him, in the middle of the shop floor, still as marble in the orange glow of the setting sun.

There is a rigid expression on his face and Aziraphale is rather alarmed.

“Crowley?” he asks, stepping closer, and is quite unprepared for the demon in question to sit down heavily right there on the floor.

“Crowley, what on earth are you doing?”

Crowley looks up at him. His sunglasses have slid down to the tip of his nose and Aziraphale can see that his eyes are wide.

“It was. Fire.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Yes, you told me it had burned. Quite regrettable, certainly, but see?” He gestured around them, at the perfectly intact bookshop. “Adam put it all to rights again, and that includes the shop, so really it’s all--”

“No, Angel,” Crowley snaps, cutting him off. “It’s _not_ alright.”

“It is, though,” Aziraphale insists. He even goes as far as to poke the side of one of the nearby shelves, proving thoroughly that it is just as solid as it seems. “It was just a little fire. I even checked the priceless books I keep separated from the others, and they are all just as they should be. Actually, I think some of Oscar’s books are in better condition than they were previously, which is really quite--”

“I didn’t know,” Crowley says, voice hoarse and rough and gritty, “that it was _just_ fire.”

And Aziraphale finds he must sit down himself, that his legs have quite suddenly decided to stop working. “You thought...” he begins, then stops, because he can’t find the words. Suddenly, it all makes sense, the anguish on Crowley’s face in the pub, the disregard with which he’d thrown himself into the apocalypse.

“Yes, Angel, I bloody thought,” Crowley snaps, and reaches up to drag a hand down his face, knocking his sunglasses askew. He shoves them back up his face irritably, and Aziraphale sees with complete and utter astonishment that Crowley’s fingers are trembling.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, helpless, and for the second time that day reaches for him without thinking. He can’t think of much beyond how little he likes to be the cause of that expression on Crowley’s face. He pulls Crowley forward, to him, and wraps both his arms around his shoulders. After a moment, he lowers his head to press his nose into the crook of his demon’s neck and breathes in deeply.

Crowley doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his arms to return the embrace. He just sits there, dully, letting himself be held. And well, Aziraphale is fully prepared to hold him all night if that’s what it takes. For another six thousand years right here on the floor, if that’s what Crowley needs.

“I didn’t go anywhere, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs.

“I thought,” Crowley says, voice emotionless, “that the last conversation we were going to have was going to be an argument about the bloody stars.”

Aziraphale laughs a bit at that, really more of a puff of air escaping the lungs that don’t really need it anyway than an actual laugh. For a moment he doesn’t say anything – he simply sits there, feeling the warm press of Crowley’s body where it has slumped against his. These forms that aren’t really them, and are yet somehow more them than anything else they’ve ever been.

He lifts a hand and places it carefully on the back of Crowley’s head. That’s rather nice, he thinks. Crowley’s hair is soft to the touch and he carefully trails his fingers down to the edge of his hairline before lifting his hand and repeating the motion.

Crowley takes a deep, shuddering breath. He shifts a bit in Aziraphale’s arms and for a moment, Aziraphale thinks he’s readying to pull away. He barely has time to register the sting of disappointment before there’s pressure against his spine and he realizes that Crowley has lifted his arms and returned the embrace. He’s curling those long fingers into Aziraphale’s waistcoat and his grip tightens, shoulders hunching as he drops his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale wonders if he should say something. He tries to imagine how he might have felt in Crowley’s position – if he’d come upon the Bentley, say, up-ended on the side of the road with one wheel still spinning, the sting of holy light still glinting off its windshield and—

A deep, horrified emptiness swells in his chest and he catches his breath.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice is thick and heavy with all the words he’s refusing to say and Aziraphale sits back, disentangling them for a moment, holding Crowley an arm’s length away from him so he can look into his face.

He should say something here. Some magical combination of words to let Crowley know he understands, that he is starting to realize that the separation might have destroyed him utterly if Shadwell’s blasted circle hadn’t come along and tried it first. Something to let Crowley know that now that they’ve managed to carve themselves out a spot right in the middle of it all, Aziraphale will not be leaving his side for all the powers of Heaven or Hell.

And yet, for all that he loves words, he finds them failing him utterly.

And so—

“My _dear_ ,” he says again, quite helplessly, and leans forward and kisses him.

Crowley goes completely still against him, eyes blinking wide and round behind his sunglasses, but Aziraphale kisses him anyway, soft and sure and determined, because he might not be able to find the words, but Crowley has always preferred actions anyway.

It takes a moment, perhaps two or three, were there anyone about actually counting moments, but Crowley moves, finally, returning the kiss hesitantly, one hand coming up to flutter fingers over Aziraphale’s jaw, butterflies unsure where they might come to rest.

Aziraphale smiles into the kiss, which has the unfortunate side effect of breaking the kiss, and he opens his eyes to find Crowley has closed his. In the split second before he opens them, Aziraphale sees the look on his face, and it sends some of those self-same butterflies to furiously beat their wings against his rib cage.

Crowley opens his eyes and for a moment they just look at each other, still kneeling there on the floor of the bookshop. Aziraphale can’t quite seem to stop smiling and after a moment, Crowley seems to relax, just a fraction, his shoulders dropping. A smile, small and hesitant and just on this side of shy appears on his face and Aziraphale’s heart responds, leaping adoringly at the sight of it. He reaches up and re-adjusts his demon’s sunglasses, settling them back on his face and taking the opportunity to curl an errant strand of hair back behind Crowley’s ear.

Color blooms high in Crowley’s cheeks and Aziraphale feels his own smile grow even wider at the sight until he is practically beaming.

They are going to be alright, he thinks. The future has been re-set and the world saved and they are still alive and they are going to be alright.


End file.
